Gung Ho Pen
by DamaDeHonor
Summary: Dean picks up a journal lying on the ground. Sometimes it's better to leave well enough alone. crackfic


**Spoilers:** Up through Season 3. Not specific, I don't think.

- - -

**"Gung-Ho Pen"**

Sam and Dean were just coming out of a restaurant, when a strange-looking man came walking down the sidewalk. He was wearing a long, grey trench coat, and many layers of multicolored clothing underneath. His socks, which were visible from under his tweed slacks, were the diamond-brown and black patterned type. He wore a red scarf around his neck, even though it wasn't very cold that day.

He bumped into Dean on the way past. And when Dean turned to look at him, he was gone. And then he noticed a leather book, lying on the sidewalk.

He glanced at Sam, and said, "Hey, looks like he dropped something."

"Who?" Sam wondered, as Dean stooped to pick up the book from the ground.

"What, you didn't see the weirdo that just ran into me?"

"No." Sam gave him that "you're crazy" look.

Dean opened the book, curiously, and was surprised to see that there was absolutely nothing written on its blank, yellowish pages. "Huh, that's weird. Nothin' in it."

Sam leaned over his shoulder to look, and Dean held up the journal for him to see. "Okay, so he just bought it, and bumped into you and dropped it. It's not weird, Dean, it's just a coincidence."

"Happenstance," Dean said, then blinked at himself.

Had he just corrected his genius, kid brother?

"Um, I think that's a matter of style, Dean." Sam was giving him a strange, pensive look.

"Uh, yeah," Dean said, like he didn't care, but he was wondering why he'd even said that in the first place.

"We should see if we can catch up with the guy," Sam suggested, but Dean shook his head.

"He's long gone."

"Yeah... You're probably right."

"What are you talking about?" Dean teased, "I'm the older brother--I'm always right."

- - -

Words were floating around in his head that day like loose cannons, waiting to blow something up... maybe him. He wanted to write them down, and, agitated, he grabbed a pen from the motel's desk and sat down on his bed, back against the headboard, and started writing in the journal.

Sam was in the shower, thankfully, or he probably would've said something about that.

Dean had been writing for five minutes before he realized _*what*_ he'd been writing. He sat up straight, and scanned it over, with a growing sense of... freaked-out-ness.

'_The dogs are howlin'_

_At my door_

_For hours now_

_I've been waiting for_

_Them to bust through_

_To come tear me in two_

_Don't know why_

_I don't just do it myself_

_I want to get out_

_But there's nowhere to go_

_It's out of the pan,_

_And into the stove_

_I don't have faith_

_In God or myself_

_And there's more at stake_

_Than a bet on my health_

_I'm going down_

_And it'll be soon_

_I'm hoping that hell_

_Ain't all doom and gloom_

'_Cause the dogs are howlin'_

_at my door_

_And I'm not sure_

_What I'm waitin' for_

_But I'm hoping that God_

_Is real and I'm wrong  
_

_And he'll save me from hell_

_before too long.'_

It was poetry. Well, not exactly _poetry_ poetry. It was… like a song, without words. For a split second, he thought about putting music to it, and then smacked himself on the head. He couldn't even write music. _'Get ahold of yourself, Winchester.'_ There was definitely something hinky goin' on with that book.

He held it away from him like people held doggy-poop bags or dead spiders, and carefully edged off the bed and took it to a trash bin. He emptied the bin and dumped the journal in it. Then he lit a match and tossed it in.

Sam came out of the shower, rubbing his hair. He emerged from the towel, asking, "Do you smell… smoke."

He eyed Dean and the flaming trash can. "I'm assuming it's haunted."

"Or something."

"Um... you gonna put it out now?"

"Not done yet."

Sam suggested, "Maybe a little rock salt?"

Dean thought about the possibility of the book not burning, or magically reappearing somehow, and Sam looking at the contents on the basis of learning more about it, and had to work hard not to hyperventilate. He nodded because he thought his voice would probably come out in an unmanly squeak.

He heard a few things zipping and unzipping then Sam returned with the salt, shuffled up to Dean's side and poured it over the flames. "What happened?"

"Trust me," Dean said, "You don't wanna know."

Sam looked at him askance, then stood, watching with him as the book burned to ash.

-end-


End file.
